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Talk:KThxBye/@comment-3575890-20180103223544
Writing has been my vice for as long as I can remember. It has more or less saved my life on more than one occasion, and so now I have finally gathered the courage to get this out. If any of you choose to read this, thank you. If not, that’s okay too. This is going to get super heavy after all. I will preface with that what I am about to talk about may be incredibly triggering for some. I advise to please read with caution. The last thing I want is to make someone else feel terrible. Five months ago, though it still feels as fresh as yesterday, my entire life as I knew it had been uprooted. Only 24 hours earlier, I was independent, stable, and (relatively) happy. I use that last term quite loosely for reasons I’ll soon get into, but for the most part - life was good. I was living with friends in a beautiful house, I had a steady job, and I was in a committed long-term relationship with a man I loved more than anything else in the world. This man I was so certain was my forever. He was the person I was certain that - if I ever chose to marry - would be the one standing at the altar with me one day. I couldn’t have pictured it any other way. We had been through too much together to not have ended up together in the end. But life never works out the way you want it to. In the grand scheme of all that could have been, our time together was brief, but we shared so many memories together, overcame so many obstacles, that it felt like a lifetime together. And now it seems moving on from him will take twice as long, if ever moving on is possible. From the start, I knew he had problems. I knew him better than anyone in his life did. He had a wonderful family who I had come to love as my own, but he was also estranged from them - a divide that was prominently attributed to a complicated history that he only partially shared with me, and that I would eventually learn the full devastating details of after the fact. I knew he needed help. I just did not know HOW MUCH. My love for him was not undeserved. He was a wonderful person full of light and life unmatched in his ability to love unconditionally. There was no one who cared more than him. He was caring, compassionate, emotion-driven, and generous. I could go on for many spells about how wonderful he was in spite of his monumental faults, but it wouldn’t matter. All of the positives was not enough to save him from himself. He had a brilliant mind shrouded by a debilitating disease that very rapidly became a hazard to himself. He was too inquisitive, he was too introspective. I watched helplessly as his beautiful mind withered away having fallen victim to a host of mental issues that he struggled so hard to conceal early in our relationship, but inevitably nevertheless started to peak through the cracks of his facade of composure he wore like armour. At first, I didn’t see it much. Glimpses here and there alerted me that something was off, and stirred a sense of malaise within myself, but wasn’t until one day when he fell apart in front of me for the first time that I realised something was truly wrong. It was the first he raised his voice at me, the first I saw him throw and break things in a fit of rage-induced adrenaline, the first I saw the anxiety, paranoia, and rage take form like some malevolent force apart from himself had taken possession of his body - the first sign of a continuous pattern of occurrences riddled with paranoid psychobabble and hysteria. None of this negative energy was projected at me. It seemed to come from within as though he was in the throes of an internal battle with himself. Something I had never seen before had taken root, and I was terrified. Not of him, but for him. I did not know what to do. His mental health only continued to wane from there. The episodes became more and more frequent to the point that it was considered a rare occurrence when they did not happen. Everything became heightened soon after - the tension, the animosity, the emotions of both him and myself, respectively. I won’t lie to myself and say we had a happy and functional relationship to the end. It wasn’t. But it didn’t matter. I loved him anyway. Unfortunately, it was not enough. One night, we had a fight that there was no turning back from this time. I had been at the end of my rope for a long while. We had been in a long-distance relationship at this point, only seeing each other once or twice a month, despite that we lived together. He was constantly travelling back and forth between home and his new job that demanded a three hour commute. It wasn’t the most ideal job, but being unemployed for months after his former boss had fired him made for a desperate situation. So he had no choice but to pack his bags and leave me in a perpetual state of waiting. Needless to say, our relationship suffered only more. On top of the distance, I had grown so tired of the constant outbursts, and of the fighting that always followed thereafter, that whatever sliver of composure I had managed to hold onto until then, for that moment, ceased to exist. Year’s worth of pent up feelings - of fear, frustration, resentfulness, anger, hurt - exploded out of me. He said things, I said things, neither of which either of us can ever take back. He stormed out of the room in a fit of rage and I let him, so fed up with the constant toxicity and instability that had come to plague our relationship. I thought he was going somewhere to cool off as he had a tendency to do when the going got too tough and his flight instincts kicked in, and it was those flight instincts that did work in tandem with the horrible, life-altering decision he made next. I was so upset that when he came back to the room to try to work it out, for once, I told him I needed time to cool off. He had hurt me too much. I couldn’t look at him let alone have the strength to put my pride aside and talk to him. In hindsight, choosing that moment to decide that I was tired and was going to prioritise my mental welfare over his for once by asking him to leave turned out to be the biggest regret of my life. There was a very distinct sob in his voice as he bade me goodbye that absolutely broke my heart and almost convinced me to reconsider. I still hear it in my head every night before I go to sleep, replaying the events of that night and the many ways I could have done everything differently. None of it matters now though because unfortunately, almost is the operative word. And ALMOST does not cut it. Almost does not turn back time. I hate myself for that my pride won over. I had concluded that I had given him one too many chances at the expense of myself. Truth be told, as much as I loved him, I was in a constant state of misery because of the dysfunctional state of my relationship that had come to be with this man I loved so much, but couldn’t help. It killed me inside every day that no matter what I said or did, it never made a difference. That feeling of complete powerlessness, of not being able to help the one person I loved more than anything, it brought on a host of my own problems. I resented myself in that I could not let go of this idea that it was my responsibility to help him. To save him from himself before it was too late. I thought, what good am I if I can’t even help the one person who needs me most? I have always had a bit of a savior-complex. Not stemming from some godly hubris or anything like that, but of an ingrained inclination to not only want to help people, but to feel it was my inalienable responsibility to do so. For as long as I can remember, I have always been the designated ‘rock’ out of my group of friends and in my family. When people had any sort of problem, they came to me. I actively encouraged them to. It made me feel so powerless and worthless that the one person I strove to help more than anyone would not accept my help. I had tried so many times in the only ways I knew how, only for my efforts to be shunned. I was tired of it. I was tired of feeling like I was getting nowhere with him and that he didn’t value my help or me for that matter, as it had come to feel with every hurtful thing said and done in the many incidents we would later define as “heat of the moment” after the inevitable make up facilitated by the habit of shoving the issue under the carpet as though it never occurred. At the crux of it all, our biggest problem was that we could not communicate. It destroyed us, together and respectively. I reached my breaking point that night. For the first time, I had lost all will to fight. I told him to go. I just wanted to be alone for once to be able to process my own feelings, that I had continually shoved to the back burner for him. I decided I needed to show him that he could not take for granted that there would always be another chance; that as much as I loved him, there was a limit put on how many even he can be given. He left. And at the moment, I couldn’t be bothered because I could not have known it would be the last time I would ever see him again. The next morning I awoke to what I thought was the sound of his voice. Even in retrospect, I can still hear it in my head. I would know that voice from anywhere and I swear up and down that was precisely what I heard from a floor below. And yet, it wasn’t. It was impossible because what I would soon discover, as I descended the staircase and searched our home for him to make up from the events of the night prior was that he had been gone for hours. I won’t get into the specifics. This part is especially very painful to talk about as the trauma is still as fresh as it was the day I found him. Nobody needs to know the details. All I will say, is that in that moment, I understood the limitless extremes a person’s mind can and will go to when they have lost everything. I must have went through the five traditional stages of grief in those initial first minutes alone. I knew he was gone from the moment I found him. It was very painfully obvious by just the sight of him. But still every fibre of my being refused to believe or acknowledge it. The whole while I was screaming, but I couldn’t even hear myself over the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my heart as I fought against processing the tragedy laid out in front of me. His body ice cold to the touch confirmed what my brain in now full on self-preservation mode refused to accept. I kept searching frantically for a pulse; I tried to resuscitate him even while my roommates who too had now happened upon the terrible scene tried to pull me away. Hopeless as it was, I didn’t stop until the paramedics arrived and pronounced him dead, definitively shattering my whole world with a single declaration of the devastating truth. I thought I was going to die. I cried until my chest felt it might explode, and then I cried some more. I did not believe it was even humanly possible that a single person could hold so many tears. I had been through a lot in my life, but I did not believe that the level of despair I felt in that moment - of the self-loathing, regret, guilt, and unfathomable pain that seemed to rapidly envelop my entire existence- was survivable for any one person. I thought surely my heart would give out at any moment and I would die. And in that moment, I would have thought it a blessing. The feeling of wanting to die, and the simplicity of an easy escape encapsulated in an ideation that was anything but simple nevermind acceptable, was unlike anything I had ever felt in my life. I had struggled with suicide ideation before, but I realized I had never truly known what it was like to want to die - to really truly want to disappear from this world forever - until that day. I had thought I had known real grief before. Turns out I did not, and I was not equipped with the means to cope with it. I started drinking excessively and shopping compulsively. Within the space of a few months, I had maxed out my credit cards and blown through my line of credit. It has been five months now, but is still an ordeal I struggle with moving on from every day. I still partially fail to grasp the reality of that he’s gone. That I will never for all of the rest of my years see him again. This permeating hole in my heart left in his wake is the slowest torture I have ever known. The image of him as I found him is burned into my eyelids forcing me to relive the memory every time I close my eyes. The fear of his memory fading further away with each passing day is so palpable and fills my heart with a sadness I never realised possible. I wish I could say things have gotten better - especially with all the good potential a new year holds - but I feel worse than ever. Not only did I lose the man I loved, but I’ve lost my identity. This angry, embittered, cynical girl with no aspirations any longer, no motivation to do anything, no independence, no in-every-sense-of-the-term ‘fucks to give’ is not who I want to be. It seems as much as I am mourning the loss of the man I loved, I am also mourning the loss of myself and the life I once had. I fear I will lose my job any day because I cannot function at work, nor at home. Whereas before I enjoyed my time alone to reflect, think, and unwind, now I cannot bear to be left alone for even a moment with these dark thoughts that threaten to destroy me. I need constant support and reassurance at such a rate that I feel like more of a burden to everyone I love than anything else. I have since moved in with my parents until I am able to support myself again. I hate it. The only feeling worse than a sense of being lost, is feeling weak and powerless. The turning back of the clock in being forced to be dependent on someone other than yourself, especially your parents, in my late twenties - the final remains of my autonomy tossed to the wayside. I only fear how much more I stand to lose if I cannot hold this job any longer. It’s the only semblance of independence I have left. Being around people overwhelms me. Being away from people overwhelms me. I do not know how to have any peace of mind. There are only a handful of people I am able to be around right now without feeling on the verge of mental collapse. I more or less turn into a shaking, crying mess when I am without the comfort of their company. I do not know what it is, but they are the only tangible source of peace available to me right now. They have been and continue to be of great help to me and have undoubtedly played a defining role in my even getting as far as I have already, despite the road ahead is long and unforgiving. I was always the person people leaned on. Now I cannot function without having somebody to lean on constantly, while at the same time struggling with a complex that makes me feel weak and pathetic in my constant need for human interaction. I do not know who I am anymore. The person I was before had the strength to get through anything - or so I believed. Now all I can do is try in vain to shed myself of some of this burden by channelling these feelings into writing. And in these last few months, I have done SO much of it. So when does it start to become the catharsis it’s supposed to be? It’s a terrible way to think, but more and more every day, I understand the headspace that compelled my boyfriend to do it. I do not condone or glorify it, and I would never do it myself - especially now knowing first hand the pain of losing someone you love to suicide. I could never put my friends or family through that. I simply now have somewhat of an idea of how he felt. And it kills me so much inside that he was in this much pain. I have finally come around to understanding that it was not my fault, but I still cannot shake this feeling that there is so much more I could have done for him, or that even possibly, I could have prevented it. These thoughts haunt me daily and I will probably carry them with me for the rest of my life, but there’s no turning back the hands of time, so all I can do is try to look toward the future. How does a person do that when they’re still living in the past though? I just don’t know.